


Poised In Space

by leedeeloo



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 02:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15854679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: Phobos is have a quiet, reflective moment.





	Poised In Space

Whenever Phobos got a new bag of potting soil, he’d stick his hand right in as soon as it was open. Naturally, it was completely understandable, the epitome of self-indulgence, and who could blame him? It had a freshness to it, and somehow smelled like every home he’d ever known, ever held close in his heart with a fondness. Despite his hands being caked in dirt, worked under his fingernails, in the little crevices and lines in his knuckles and joints, it didn’t feel  _ dirty _ \- there was no urge to wash it off like there was was when he got sweaty- it felt right, normal, even. He got comfortable, squatting down on the ground, running his fingers through the top layer of dirt, scooping some up in his palm and letting it fall back down.

Earth dirt was just pleasant to feel; usually soft, sucking up water better than anything, yet prone to crumbling away to nothing when dry. When he squeezed a handful, there was a delightful resistance to it, a grit. It amazed him still, how plants would spring up from it. It was so easy to bring him back to the first time he saw this planet, how it all felt like magic, unreal and dream-like. 

The sung was finally rising, light tinged red through the clouds stained with city pollution. He liked coming out just before bed, this time to repot some plants he kept in his room, but he’d gotten distracted. He squinted as he looked out at the yard from where he was on the backyard patio; the grass was dewed over, little droplets visible. The garden was covered in it as well, the few permanent fixtures of shrubs and bushes around the border of it.

He breathed in; the air was crisp and cool, masking the filth of it. Out, and he could see it. A wispy almost cloud, dissipating and matching the ambient temperature quickly. He didn’t need more than the sweater he’d pulled on, toes barely cold in the sandals he kept at the back door just for this.

Spring was finally coming awake, and he could feel it.

He felt it, heels planted firmly on the ground, the Earth spinning, whipping through space, the tectonic plates grinding and pressing against one another. The ocean rumbling and bubbling, wind on his face and whispering things from across the Atlantic, from across the country, people starting and ending their days. Everything was starting and ending and continuing on in the middle of it all. His hand had found its way back into the bag of soil again. Somehow a new sack of dirt, packaged and fresh, yet older than anything he could ever dream of comprehending. He stared at it, pulled his hand up, stared at the little pile in his palm.

It just made perfect logical sense to shove it into his mouth.

Dirt didn’t taste nearly as lovely as it smelled, and it sucked all the moisture out of his mouth, an uncomfortable texture, experience.

The screen door  _ SLAM-slam-slm _ ’d shut, and Phobos looked over and up, not having heard it even open. He pressed his lips together, mouth obviously full.

“Lord Phobos,” Sung sighed, managing to say his friend’s name as though it were a curse; an exasperated breath out, the way someone would sigh out ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ as they discovered their dog had somehow ripped the bird feeder from the branches. This wasn’t an expected part of his morning, clearly dressed to go on a jog with sunglasses on instead of his usual conical headwear.

“How long has it been?” he continued, running a hand through his hair as if that might help him come to the answer he wanted any quicker. “How long have we  _ been _ here? A-and you’re still, still-” He gestured at Phobos, circling him with some imaginary marking pen, outlining a grievous error. His hand stopped, went to his face, fingertips pressed into his cheeks. “Please,” he implored, shaking his head a little, “ _ please stop eating dirt _ .”

Phobos stared him down, dirt fully transformed into a muddy slurry in his mouth. He looked right where Sung’s eye was, stared through the mirror finish of the glasses. His second pair of eyelids, the clear ones, slowly slid over his eyes, but he continued his wide-eyed stare. 

“Please,” Sung whispered, barely audible. That didn’t sway Phobos, and he swallowed. Bits of gravel and tiny sticks scratched his throat, but he didn’t let that discomfort show on his face. He could see the sweat forming on Sung’s skin like dew on the grass, the subtle, tiny downturn of his lips; physical evidence of his spirit breaking just a bit- cracking, was more like it.

Sung took sideways steps out of the backyard, trying multiple times to open the gate without looking, trapped in a staring contest with Phobos. He walked backwards, slowly, and even once their sightline was broken, Phobos could still hear his slow steps until he was up to the front yard, presumably forcing himself back into some kind of normal where people could see.

**Author's Note:**

> this was my piece for the here in ladyworld zine! im so so grateful to have been a part of something that raised over $1,300 for charity.   
> im sorry for still not having my gotzine piece up yet its coming im sorry.


End file.
